Shakespeare & Sinatra
by GettingDizzy
Summary: When a new teacher is brought slightly unwillingly to the Xavier Institute, Hank McCoy finds himself falling harder than he ever did during football practice. He might just find his affections reciprocated...if the lady can survive her mutation first.
1. In Which Our Heroine is Introduced

_In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade,_

_And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down_

_Or cut him 'til he cried out in his anger and his shame,_

_"I am leaving, I am leaving," but the fighter still remains._

_Yes he still remains._

_Li la li, li la li li--- _

The song was immediately cut off as a fist slammed down on its owner's alarm clock. Elizabeth Schromen rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow, wanting to drift into sleep for a few more minutes. Her bedmate, however, had other ideas, which he made very clear through grumbles and slight physical force.

When your bedmate is a 130 pound bloodhound, you listen.

"Alright, alright," Betty grumbled, rolling onto her other side. She really didn't want to get up--her skin hurt, bad, just as it had been when she woke up for the last few weeks. She really ought to call a doctor, but she felt fine once she got up and usually forgot or postponed the call. "I'm awake."

She felt the mattress bounce as her dog, a beautiful black-and-tan named Tybalt, hopped off the bed. A moment later, a pair of slippers were thrust in her face.

Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes with one hand and accepted Ty's gift with the other. "Mm... thanks, boy." She slipped them on, having long ago learned to embrace dog slobber.

Shuffling into the kitchen, she measured out Tybalt's dog food and put it in his dish, watching as he dug into it. The bowl made a grating noise as he nosed the dish around the tile; Betty had given up trying to stop his breakfast time circumnavigations. Shaking her head, she started to make coffee.

After her first cup, she was feeling much more awake and the burn under her skin had faded to an ignorable level. She let Ty loose into the small yard of their Chicagosuburb home and went to take a shower.

Twenty minutes later, with shampooed hair and brushed teeth, she went back into the yard, jingling Tybalt's leash. He abandoned the chipmunk hole he was worrying at immediately and ran toward her, happily trouncing as well as his large, awkward body would let him.

"Does Ty want a walkie?" she crooned, hooking the leash onto his collar. "Oh, yus, Ty wants a walkie! Of course he does!" She gave him a kiss on the nose before they headed out onto the sidewalk.

The sun had just finished rising as they made their way on their morning trail. Betty noticed this with despair--later dawns meant winter was that much closer. Stopping on a corner to wait for the light, she glanced at the headlines on a newspaper rack. Large, bold letters stared out at the street, proclaiming "THE MUTANT MENACE--Fact Or Fiction?--What Is The Government Doing About It?" Betty tutted softly.

"No use getting caught up in that sort of thing," she told her dog, as the light turned green. "It's so much easier to stay out."

Unfortunately for her, staying out was about to get much harder.


	2. In Which Our Heroine is Almost Recruited

Here is the chapter two. Finished before... that version of chapter one. Hurrah.

NOTE--I'm warning readers now; this might go from K+ to T. I really don't know. Be warned.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Teen Titans!"

"Gilmore Girls!"

"Teen Titans!"

"Gil... Nightcrawler you get your fuzzy butt down from that ceiling _right now!_"

It was your typical weekday night argument at Xavier's Institute. Too many teenagers and not enough TVs led to verbal and occasionally physical battles for the remote. Anyone who didn't want to watch the tube could always be entertained by viewing the fights. Tonight it was Nightcrawler vs. Shadowcat, which always proved to be interesting. Unfortunately, today's tussle was ended swiftly and brutally by the arrival of Hank McCoy.

"I'll take that, thank you." He rescued the remote from being torn apart between Kitty and Kurt and plopped down on the center of the couch. "There's a fascinating documentary about Don Sphynx genetic patterns on and I'm sure no one would want to miss..."

He glanced up, noticing the sudden deserted state of the room. He chuckled, turning on "From Here to Eternity". "Works every time..."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ah-one, ah-two, ah-one two three four!"

A saxophone solo filled the loft of Jimmy Johnson, leading swiftly to a wailing trumpet and, finally, a soothing tenor singing "Straighten Up and Fly Right". This was the usual scene on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. Chi-town Scat took over the place from six to eight, practicing their jazz pieces. They were a six-man ensemble, and played for gatherings and restaurants across their great city.

Or so they would like to believe.

Really, they were six twenty- and thirty- somethings with instruments and decent voices who wanted something to do. Betty graced them with her saxophone and, occasionally, her singing.

This was her life. Work as an editor for some big-shot magazine whose name she couldn't remember half the time but whose writers sure made a LOT of grammatical mistakes during the day. Take up her old jazz band dreams at night. Try to keep her existence from seeming pointless.

"No, no, no. Stop. Right there."

The singer, Johnson himself, had abruptly cut out, looking a little irritated. The rest of the group petered out as he poked his music.

"See, Bets? Measure 34. You get off. I don't know what you're doing, but it's off."

Betty rubbed her eyes, blinking at her music. "Oh. I see. I was inverting the sixteenth and the eighth again." She picked up her pencil from her stand and marked it in.

"Maybe we should just quit, Jim," Sam Rayburn, their player-of-all-brass, master-of-none, cut in. "It's almost eight and I gotta get home. I promised Chris I'd bathe the twins tonight. I'm lucky she still lets me come."

The rest of the group made various agreeing noises, and Johnson had to give in. "Alright, we'll call it quits," he said with a sigh. "Nice work, everybody. Remember, practice is from seven to eight next Wednesday."

The usual wrapping-up small talk occurred as instruments were cleaned and put away and the loft put back into order. Betty waved good-bye and left, knowing that Tybalt would be wanting his evening walkies before he went to bed. It was a nice night, and she could use the workout, so she walked home, whistling and switching her sax case from hand to hand whenever it became to heavy.

The usual low 'hawoofs' rumbled from the house as soon as she started up the walk. She chuckled, unlocking the door to be greeted by an ecstatic Tybalt, his tale thwacking against the doorframe. "Oh, who's a good boy," she said, setting down her case to grab his head in both hands and rub his ears. "Is yous a good boy? Of course you is! Oh yus, Ty is the best boy in the world, yus he is! Does Ty want to take a walkies? Of course he does! Of course he does!"

Tybalt probably understood about four words of the speil (good boy, Ty, and walkies), but he wagged his tail and salivated all over his mistress just the same.

"C'mon, boy, let's go for walkies."

Ty eagerly trotted into the kitchen, and Betty followed after him, expecting, of course, a normal night.

"Hello, Elizabeth."

Last time she checked, a normal night didn't include a bald guy and a woman occupying her kitchen.

"Hi?" For a second, she was so taken aback by the absurdity of the situation, she didn't even know how to react. "Why are you in my kitchen?" They didn't look like thieves. Most thieves aren't disabled, and the bald guy was in a wheelchair. Very hard to get through broken windows and such like that. Even though she had a feeling they weren't there to hurt her, she backed up a step until her hand was grasping the handle to the cutlery drawer, ready to yank it open and brandish the butcher knife.

"You don't have to be afraid," the man said, and something in his eyes made her want to trust him. "We're not going to hurt you."

"Oh, really?" she asked vaguely, still not quite over her shock. "Then why are you in my kitchen?"

"We run a school for mutants," the woman said, speaking for the first time. Betty liked her direct way of getting to the point; unfortunately, she did not like the point.

"Really?" she said again, wondering why she still didn't feel scared. "If you're looking for donations, you're not going to find them here."

"We want you to join," the man answered. "We're always looking for new staff, and..."

"Wait, wait, wait," Betty said, holding up a hand to stop him. "You want me... to drop my life, and start working at a school for mutants." She gave a half laugh. "No offense, but you might want to look for someone better suited for the job."

_Elizabeth._ She realized the voice was inside her own head. _My name is Charles Xavier. No, don't look around—I'm right in front of you. My school, it's a home for mutants, especially youngsters coming into their powers. You're a late bloomer, and I understand with an intact life you might not want to..._

"I'm not a mutant," Betty broke in, as the anger she had been waiting for finally came. "I don't want to hear about your school, and I want you out of my house. Please. Leave now."

Xavier sighed, pulling a business card out of his shirt pocket. "Keep this," he said, as she reached for it automatically. "You may need the number."

She snorted, tossing it onto the counter. "Door's open."

They took the hint, both leaving.

"That," Betty murmured to Tybalt, who whined after the strangers, "was weird."


End file.
